


feed me just enough that i'll never need a cage

by Cunninglinguist



Series: The Last Day On Earth [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Anal Sex, Bath Sex, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bodily Fluids, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Feral Behavior, Feral Will Schofield, Gay Sex, Gratuitous Descriptions of Will Schofield’s Huge Fucking Hands, Guns, Horror, Isolation, Kissing, Knives, M/M, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Post-World War I, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23390335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunninglinguist/pseuds/Cunninglinguist
Summary: “Come on.” Sco stops walking, runs a hand over the faintest marking on a tree trunk. “It’s just a little farther now.”“I’m coming.” Tom huffs a sigh, yanking his shotgun strap over his shoulder so the barrel lands in his hands. They’ve been on the road for nearly a week now, an unfortunate consequence of their last shelter getting swarmed by an army of dead ones. Though skinning rabbits to eat over hastily made fires and taking turns sleeping against trees, spending the days and nights consumed with fear, and jumping each time a stick cracked were hardly desirable circumstances, it certainly wasn’t their longest or harshest stint on the run. They had endured worse, by far, and Tom had no doubt that this particular stretch of time would come to an end when Sco said it would.He knows the way, he always knows the way.Plus, Tom wouldn’t want to spend this time with anyone else in the entire world.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: The Last Day On Earth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735534
Comments: 37
Kudos: 152
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	feed me just enough that i'll never need a cage

**Author's Note:**

> this zombie apocalypse au will schofield face (and body) claim brought to you by the absolutely feral sex on legs that is ned kelly!george mackay. (just google it. you're welcome. )
> 
> title taken from ["american landfill"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EbOKU3j23k0&t=56s) by 3TEETH, because i am never not listening to industrial and thinking about my ships.

“Come on.” Sco stops walking, runs a hand over the faintest marking on a tree trunk. “It’s just a little farther now.”

“I’m coming.” Tom huffs a sigh, yanking his shotgun strap over his shoulder so the barrel lands in his hands. They’ve been on the road for nearly a week now, an unfortunate consequence of their last shelter getting swarmed by an army of dead ones. Though skinning rabbits to eat over hastily made fires and taking turns sleeping against trees, spending the days and nights consumed with fear, and jumping each time a stick cracked were hardly desirable circumstances, it certainly wasn’t their longest or harshest stint on the run. They had endured worse, by far, and Tom had no doubt that this particular stretch of time would come to an end when Sco said it would.

He knows the way, he always knows the way.

Plus, Tom wouldn’t want to spend this time with anyone else in the entire world. 

Sco slows his pace so he can catch up. Once he falls in stride, Sco holds out his canteen. 

Tom waves him off, thirsty as he may be. “I’m fine. Let’s keep moving. I want to make it before sundown.”

Sco’s lips part in a grin, teeth a white crescent against his dirt-streaked face. “Let’s keep moving, then.”

They move through a seemingly endless woodland, their presence unobscured by barren tree branches, reaching towards the sky like skeleton hands clinging to the end of a brutal, slow-dying winter. Every so often, Tom sees the odd verdant bud, the smallest hint at life peeking through the inhospitable bitterness of their world. Without fail, he points them out to Sco, all the while keeping his eyes up, focused on what's ahead, so as not to see the evidence of those who had passed this way before with less resilience than them. 

It’s Sco who’s got eyes on the ground, and every so often, he halts in his path and holds up a warning hand. He looks at Tom, eyes cold, alert, gesturing for him to step around, and Tom knows he's avoiding something grim. Occasionally, there’s faint movement, or an inhuman groaning, and Sco crouches down and waits for Tom to get ahead. He knows Tom won’t look back, not even when he hears the soft snick of Sco’s knife, then the quick, sickening, wet crunch of blade through rotten _flesh bone brain bone flesh,_ the sounds of Sco putting something that’s no longer human out of perpetual and all-encompassing misery.

They’ve both seen battle, and horrors that many men have never known, but this...this was something else entirely. Each time Sco spares Tom another vision that would undoubtedly haunt him in the night, Tom falls in love with him a little more. 

By the time they reach their objective, the sun is hanging low in the sky. Sco exhales audibly at the sight of the small farmhouse. “Alright. This is it. Follow me.”

The tightly wrapped ball of anxiety in Tom’s chest begins to unwind as he follows his lover carefully through what he’s certain will be a beautiful orchard in warmer weather. Their footsteps fall silently on overgrown grass as they pass a charming little lake, then arrive in front of the quaint, albeit semi-dilapidated, little house.

“You go round back,” says Sco. “I’ll go inside.”

Tom nods and adjusts his gun, checking the knife at his side. Before he can move, Sco closes the distance between them, a profound ferocity in his eyes as he grips Tom’s jaw in one huge hand and brings their lips together. 

It’s hardly the first time they’ve kissed (Tom lost count long ago), but the voracious passion of Sco’s questing mouth still knocks Tom’s socks off. He returns the kiss in kind, lips parting for his lover’s tongue, hands fisting in the too-long hair at the nape of his neck, uncaring of the filth on their faces, content to drown in the tidal force of Sco’s love, happy to die kissing him here, in the chilly near-spring evening air.

When they part, they’re both breathless. With one final, gentle stroke of long fingers against Tom’s neck, Sco’s face hardens again. He looks pointedly towards the side of the house. Tom nods, and they both hold their weapons at the ready, moving around one another like complementary cogs in a well-oiled machine until they part ways at the front door.

Tom’s entire body is rigid, wound tighter than a bowstring as he moves stealthily around the house, scanning for even the smallest movement. These days, he’s not sure who he’d rather encounter, the living or the dead. 

No, he’s sure it’s the dead ones. At least they are relatively easy to kill, and their motivations singlefold. 

Sco’s said the same thing: he’d much rather encounter an errant pack of revenants than an errant pack of survivors. He hadn’t always thought this way. Neither of them had, not at first. As more and more time passed, however, and things continued to devolve to the point that society had been obliterated, revealing humanity’s scarred underbelly to be its true, wretched face, he and Tom had made a vow.

_The smoke from the flames crept into Tom’s eyes as the house burned behind them, tears slipping involuntarily down his face as the gruesome sounds of those with whom they had once coexisted being torn to shreds by the undead pierced the night sky, a hellish orchestra. It hadn’t been the undead ones’ fault entirely, no, it had been one amongst them, one who was hungry for power, who thirsted to seize control over those who were meant to be his equals--one who now laid cooling in a pool of his own viscera at Tom and Sco’s feet._

_“Tom.” Sco’s voice brought him back to reality. “Look at me. Look at me, darling. We have to go. Now.”_

_Tom couldn’t stop shaking as he reached his blood-slick hands up to his face. Sco’s jaw jutted out fiercely at the sight, but he tipped Tom’s face towards his, bringing their gazes together. “He doesn’t matter, not anymore. You did the right thing. Follow me.”_

_“Sco,” he heard himself whimper. He clutched at Sco’s sleeves, blood darkening filthy white fabric even further. “Sco. I don’t think...I don’t think I can live like this, I’m not cut out for it, I don’t think I can--”_

_“Stop that.” The hand on his face grabbed his jaw, squeezing hard. “You survived the Great War. Remember? Fought like hell, you did, you made it through.”_

_Tom let out another pathetic whimper, eyes widening as the sounds of screams gave way to a ghoulish groaning, growing louder, closer._

_“Tom. _Tom._ Listen to me.” The pressure on his jaw increased to the point of pain. Sco’s eyes were round like the moon, and just as bright, just as crazed. “Arras. Passchendaele. Remember that, yeah? You’re the hardest man I know. You’re the fiercest fighter I’ve met. You’re everything. You’re the only thing I need in this world.”_

_Tom’s lips parted, heart swelling as he drank up the conviction in Sco’s words, in his gaze, underscored by years of action. He swallowed, nodded. Sco released his grip, just a little, and returned the nod._

_“From this point on,” he said roughly. “We don't need anyone but each other. No one else matters. No one. I will cover you, and you will cover me. I will protect you. I will fight for you. I will die for you. And if anyone tries to break us up, break us down, control us, we will send them to fucking hell. Alright?”_

_Tom was still nodding as Sco leant in to kiss him, whispering, “alright” into his mouth like a prayer._

_“Good,” said Sco, cocking his rifle, shotgun hanging heavy over his shoulder. He tilted his head towards the forest. “Now let’s crack on before these dead bastards come for us next.”_

That was years ago now, just six months into this terrible new world, when they’d decided nothing and no one else mattered, so long as they had each other. It had always been that way, Tom knows, but hearing it spoken aloud had given him a renewed strength that he still carries with him throughout the darkest days. 

He comes around the back of the house, breath held, listening for any signs of life...any signs of _anything._ Looks like there’s a proper little barn here, just a bit up the hill, but it’s too dark to see what’s inside without getting closer. Tom inhales deeply, lets it out shakily. His finger strokes nervously over the trigger as he advances slowly, heart rattling in his rib cage, steady, steady…

There’s nothing there. Just loads of hay, two abandoned stalls, an empty chicken coop, and a bucket of—

“What’s this?” His trigger finger relaxes as he crouches down, surprised to see a bucket full of pure, creamy milk, a vestige of another life. He leans over, sniffs, and is instantly transported to early mornings spent milking cows, collecting eggs, to warm summer sun beating down on fragrant cherry blossoms and fresh cut grass, to a time of laughter. A time before war, a time before hell. 

Still fresh. 

He gets to his feet with a sigh, heading back towards the house, taking the bucket with him. He spots Sco’s profile in one of the windows. “Anything?”

“Nothing.”

 _Good._ Tom lets himself exhale as he breaches the threshold of the house. It’s more than a bit of a mess; others have been here before. Sco’s in the kitchen, rummaging through the pantry. He stops when Tom walks in, blue eyes shining. 

“There’s a nice well out back,” says Tom. He holds up the bucket. “Fresh milk, too.”

Sco crosses the room, takes the bucket from him, smells it for himself. A wan little smile plays about his lips for a moment before his face turns dark. “Others were here, not long ago.”

“Don’t think they’ll be back,” says Tom, eyeing the flung open cupboards and drawers, the trail of forgotten clothing strewn down the hall. 

“We can’t be sure.”

“It’s nearly nightfall. If they were going to come back, I doubt it’d be tonight.”

Sco’s eyes narrow, then soften. “You’re right. Why don’t we set a perimeter...nothing too big. Then we’ll secure the windows. Clocked two broken ones in the back. Once that’s done...” He gestures for Tom to walk into the main living space. There’s a copper bathtub in front of the fireplace. 

“A bath?” Tom’s so happy he nearly cries. It’s been ages: their last shelter hadn’t had anything remotely resembling a tub. Unsurprising, seeing as it had been little more than a shed, but being reliant on the nearby stream for the occasional dip left much to be desired when their days were long and full of hard labour. 

“Yes. We will collect and heat the water first, but then we must do everything I’ve just said.”

They work quickly, using the last of the sun’s blood-red rays leaching from the twilight sky to set up a crude perimeter consisting of pans, broken bottles, anything they can find (and spare) that will make noise. There’s not nearly enough material, but Sco says it’ll do, and if it’s good enough for Sco, it’s good enough for Tom. They find more boards than they need for the broken windows in the barn, so they fortify every window they can, nailing down as many planks as they have, blocking access to any prying eyes. 

When everything's finally done, and the fire's lit, and the water's steaming, Sco heaves the heavy-bottomed pot off of the hearth with a groan. His muscles move beneath his shirt as he pours the steaming water into the tub. “In you go, then.”

“Thank you, this is lovely.” Tom eagerly undoes his belt. “Although, I was hoping you might join me?”

“Oh, not to worry, I am planning to. Go on.”

Tom can’t help the blush that breaks out from his chest up to his cheeks as he sinks into the water, feeling Sco’s eyes on him like a pair of hands. The water feels incredible, and Tom exhales a groan of pleasure as he sinks deeper, dunking his head under for one blissful moment. When he surfaces, Sco’s left the room. He relaxes against the edge of the tub, the heat of the water settling into his bones like second skin, languidly washing the nerves of the week right off of him. 

Sco returns with some candles that he’s lit, setting them up carefully on the mantle above the hearth. Tom smiles, beckons him in, and Sco looks him right in the eyes as he rests the barrel of his gun against the side of the tub and methodically strips himself naked. Jesus Christ, his body had become even more muscular since the last time he’d seen it, not even a week ago. Tom salivates as he scoots up, making space for Sco to slide in behind him. Even though there’s not enough room for the both of them, they make it work, bending legs and maneuvering arms until Tom’s back is flush with Sco’s chest, and long wiry legs bracket his own.

For a time, they just sit there. Tom counts every beat of Sco’s heart against his back, loving each tangible pulse of precious life. Eventually, the water ripples beside Tom as Sco cups his hands beneath the surface. Tom grins and tips his head back, letting Sco shower him with water, over and over, until his hair is thoroughly soaked, the filth from their days on the run melting off of his face. 

He produces a sliver of soap, lathering it in his hands before running large palms over Tom’s shoulders, down his arms, across his chest. 

“Feels nice,” murmurs Tom, lifting his arm. 

“Good.” Sco bends his head, shamelessly nuzzling his nose into his armpit before soaping it up and rinsing him off. Tom shudders at the feeling of him stiffening against his lower back, his own arousal stirring between his thighs as Sco continues his slow, methodical journey across his body.

When deft fingers sink into his hair, rubbing sorely needed suds into his scalp, a lengthy groan escapes Tom's lips. 

A hand fits snugly beneath Tom’s chin, cupping his jaw, tilting his head until their eyes meet. 

“Bed?” Sco’s voice is low and gravelly, and Tom feels every remaining ounce of blood in his body rush between his legs. 

He shifts so he’s chest to chest with Sco, whose breath is coming through his nose in loud gusts. “Or...right here?” 

Sco’s eyes flash. Strong arms maneuver Tom so he’s sitting astride his lap, then wrap around his back and hold him close. “Right here works, too.”

Tom cradles Sco’s freshly scrubbed face and brings their lips together. Out of the corner of his eye, he clocks the guns: Sco's against the tub, his against the hearth. Easy to access, should anything go awry. 

“Don’t fret,” whispers Sco, reading his mind, like he always does. He reaches one arm down, behind him, to rummage about in the pile of their clothes. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” murmurs Tom, grinding down against his lover’s substantial erection, biting his lip at the frisson of pleasure the movement elicits from Sco’s tight, gorgeous body. “Like I’ve got you.”

“I know you do. Ah.” Sco brandishes a tin of petroleum jelly. “There we are.”

“Were you just...carrying that? The entire time?”

Sco gives him a look like he’s mad. “Of course.”

“Cheeky bastard.” Tom leans down and Sco surges up, mouth hot and yearning, tongue parting his lips with ease. Tom gasps, body writhing in his lap. Sco is an intense lover, far more than Tom could have ever anticipated when they first met, back before everything became the way that it is now. He supposes it’s not surprising, considering the sharp focus with which Sco approaches just about everything, from fighting, to hunting and gutting and cutting animals, to cleaning and loading his weapon, to the swiftness with which he sinks his hunting knives into the soft skulls of those who are no longer living...and sometimes, into the skulls of those who are.

Sco’s arm doesn’t leave his back, anchoring their chests together in the small space of the tub as his slick fingers descend below the water, rubbing at Tom until he’s pliant enough to penetrate. 

“Oh, God,” whimpers Tom once Sco’s splitting him open on three long fingers, discomfort ebbing into pleasure as their pricks rub together. “Fuck me now, fuck me, Sco.”

Sharp teeth find Tom’s neck as he slowly withdraws his fingers. There’s some fumbling, more heated lovebites as Sco slicks himself as best he can. He presses a small kiss to Tom’s neck and murmurs, “Go on, darling, sit on it.”

Tom positions himself over Sco’s length, breathing hard. Calloused hands find his hips, gently guiding him down, down, until just the tip of him is inside him, thick and hot enough to make Tom cry out. Sco slaps a hand over his mouth, and Tom’s eyes fly open, meeting the fire in Sco’s eyes. 

“Shh,” he hisses, rolling his hips. Tom’s eyelids flutter as he groans against Sco’s palm, so Sco pries his lips open and shoves two fingers inside his mouth. 

“Bite down on me if you must, darling,” he grits out. “Or they’ll hear you, they’ll hear you.”

Tom knows this, of course he knows this, but Sco’s just about all the way inside of him at this point. _Fuck,_ he’s enormous, every single time, it hurts so good, so fucking good. 

Tom whimpers as his prick rubs against Sco’s abdomen, hard and flexed, pure muscle, their bath water slicking the way, and he sucks Sco’s fingers deeper into his mouth.

“There you are, darling, so good for me.” A crease forms between Sco’s eyebrows, the hand on Tom’s hip flexes, fingernails digging into his skin. “Fuck, yes, you’re so tight, fuck--”

Tom moans, the fingers in his mouth and filthy words in his ears working in concert to coax rivulets of saliva from his mouth, down his chin. 

“Yes,” whispers Sco harshly, leaning forward, hard muscles of his body flexing as he thrusts up into Tom, hitting that place within him that makes his vision black out. “That’s just where you like it, yeah?”

Tom nods, hands framing Sco’s sharp jawline, fingers running through this long hair. Sco’s eyes flash, darkness eclipsing the blue, and he thrusts up harder. His fingers slip from Tom’s mouth as he closes the distance between them for a kiss. 

Tom cries out into Sco’s mouth, hips moving frantically as the bathwater sloshes between them, splashing out onto the floor. They couldn’t care less--Sco’s hand bracing on the lip of the tub as he thrusts into Tom with all of his force, Tom’s knees slipping against the copper as he grinds down to meet his lover, their tongues sliding together, lips opening, breaths hot and panting, until Tom doesn’t know where he ends and Sco begins--

One of Sco’s hands squeezes Tom’s arse, fierce, painful, then slips round the front to grab his aching prick, steadily pulsing fluid into the filthy bath water. 

“Fuck, ah, Sco!” Tom throws his head back, but Sco catches it with his free hand. 

“Shhh, hush,” he murmurs, fingers tangling in Tom’s hair, pulling just taut enough to be uncomfortable, as his other hand works between his thighs, sloppy and fast. “Just come, darling, come on my cock, let me see you come.”

Tom’s so close, fuck, he’s nearly there, nails leaving crescents on Sco’s skin, every hair on the back of his neck standing up, utterly lost to the gorgeous fire blazing in his belly. “Sco...you feel so...oh, God, you feel so…”

“I know, I know,” he soothes raggedly. “You feel so good, too, darling. And the way you look, riding me, fucking hell, I love you, come for me, I love you so much.”

Tom feels it then, the delicious descent into madness, that heat that cannot be extinguished within him, and he picks up the pace of his hips. Sco’s fucking gorgeous, his face lit by firelight, and he’s looking into Tom’s eyes, staring at him like he’s the center of his world--and Tom knows that he is, and knows that Sco is the same for him, and it’s so ineffably powerful that Tom’s close to crying. His lips part, and Sco knows what he wants, he always knows what he wants, and kisses him deeply as he thrusts into him and pumps his cock until Tom fists his hands in Sco’s long hair, pulls, and--

“My neck,” says Sco sharply, a command. “Bite down on my neck.”

Tom obeys at the last moment, biting down on delicate flesh until he tastes blood as he comes and comes and comes into the bathwater, spasms wracking his body as he clenches around Sco. 

“Yes, that’s it, come for me, oh God, look at you,” groans Sco, plunging his hand into Tom’s hair as he fucks him through it, hips moving with abandon until he’s coming long and hard with a muffled groan against his shoulder.

Tom’s barely aware of his existence in time and space as Sco pants against his shoulder, hands possessive across his flesh. “I love you, darling,” he murmurs between soft kisses. “I love you to death.”

“And I love you, I love you.” Tom tucks his head against Sco’s neck, nuzzling at the bloody little kiss he’s left there. Sco is so sweet like this, it reminds him of their first meeting in 1916, in the army. He’d been a clean cut, soft-spoken man who’d taken to Tom immediately, allowing him to strike up a friendship despite his affinity for flying solo. He’s still soft-spoken these days, but there’s a wicked razor edge to him now that renders him less predictable and far more volatile than before. 

Sco lifts Tom’s hand, the one with the gold ring that matches his own, and kisses that finger. “Satisfied?”

Tom nods, exhausted. 

Sco smiles. “Bed, then?”

By some stroke of luck, there are fresh linens in the closet, and only one towel. Sco shrugs, and allows Blake to use it first before drying himself off. They wash their clothing in the filthy bathwater, which Sco insists upon emptying before they go to sleep. Tom busies himself with hanging their clothing to dry and making the bed as Sco deals with the bathwater.

When Sco finally slides into bed with him, head resting on the same pillow, tangling their legs together beneath the musty sheets, murmuring sweet words against his neck, Tom wishes beyond everything he knows to be fact that they could stay here, like this, together and unbothered in this oasis amongst the rolling fields, forever. 

Initially, Tom keeps track of the days with little notches to the baseboard. He uses the sharpest hunting knife to make the ticks, Sco said he could, but eventually, inevitably, he loses track. There are canned goods in the pantry, a little stash of whisky below the sink, and enough seeds to plant a new garden when it’s warm enough, something Tom allows himself to look forward to. The well is a blessed source of potable water. It’s got a heavy lid, too, so no curious revenants would be able to find themselves in a grotesque dilemma, even if they tried. There are some undead stragglers who breach the perimeter, of course, but they are easy enough to dispense of with a well-timed stab or two. As Sco says, “no guns unless they’re absolutely necessary, it’s already dodgy enough to have fires inside, we don’t need to alert others to our presence.”

So Tom carries his knife, and usually one of the smaller guns, a revolver, each time he goes out. Even if it’s just out to the orchard, or the well. He never has to use it. On one of their forays beyond the perimeter, they find a lone cow grazing, healthy, unblemished by bites from the undead. They bring her back to the barn. It’s all a bit unbelievable, but who are they to question a win, especially after all they've endured? 

Like all good things, especially good things during dark times, it doesn’t last. 

One morning, Tom finds that he is, uncharacteristically, the first to rise. Sco’s still knocked out in a deep sleep by his side. It’s beautiful, the sight of him like this, and Tom’s struck by how infrequently he’s privy to such a thing. He quells the urge to lean forward and press kisses to his pretty, carefree face until he wakes up, choosing instead to slip out of bed as quietly as possible and get started on the day’s work. 

He’s got his knife by his side as he gathers the wooden buckets to fetch water from the well. It’s not far at all, just beyond the perimeter, just up by the barn. The sun is climbing high in the blue sky (almost as blue as Sco's eyes), and the air finally smells like spring. He smiles, he can’t help it. 

As he’s pumping the final bucket full, there’s a rustling, a faint clang of bottles. Tom stiffens and reaches for the revolver--nothing. He’s left it inside. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, whirling around just in time to see three dead ones breaching the perimeter--one of them has gone and tripped over it, pulling the string down to ease the others' passage. Tom huffs, heart rate spiking as he unsheathes his knife. He stalks towards them as they groan, lumbering on, arms outstretched, yellow eyes sunken into their skulls, rotting flesh falling from their bones to reveal blackened muscle and smooth skulls. 

Tom systematically stabs the first one in the base of the skull, right where they’ve found it works best. As he wrenches his arm back to stab the second one, something heavy hits him over the back of the head. 

He falls to the earth with a thud, knife falling from his hands as his eyes roll in his head, desperately trying to orient his blurring vision. Standing over him is a man holding a broken wine bottle, hair long and scraggly, face scarred, eyes manic and distressed and cruel. He’s barely discernible from his revenant counterpart, who’s leaning down over Tom, the foul stench of decay overwhelming Tom to the point that he might vomit. 

“It’s true, it's just you,” the man whispers excitedly, drawing a knife out of his pocket. “It’s true. It's just you here, isn't it? I’ll have to tell the others.”

 _A scout for another crew._ This cannot stand. 

With a grunt, Tom reaches up and grabs the neck of the revenant on top of him. A wave of nausea rolls over him as his fingers sink into decaying skin like a hot knife in butter. His hand slides through the putrefying fat and muscle, letting out a cry as the thing falls on him, mouth gaping as its skeletal hands claw at him, yearning to take a chunk of his flesh. 

The scout lets out a string of deranged giggles, and as Tom pushes the dead one’s forehead away with one arm, he flings out his other arm and grabs for his knife. Just as his fingers brush the cool metal, a radiant pain blooms in his arm. The scout is stepping on his wrist, effectively pinning him. He grins down at Tom and brandishes his own weapon, crouching just over his face. _This man wants to stand beside him and watch the revenant kill him. If that fails, he will kill him himself. He wants to watch Tom die._ A cold wave of panic overtakes him as he struggles, attempting in vain to buck the heavy dead thing from his chest, head lolling back against the grass as his fingers twist and reach…

Suddenly, Sco appears in his periphery. He’s blurry, upside down in Tom’s sight, like a fever dream, charging out of the house in little more than a pair of drawers and the shotgun strapped to his chest. Tom’s eyelids flutter, half convinced it’s a hallucination, as the revenant’s rancid breath swarms his senses, the sound of gnashing teeth and maniacal laughter the last sounds he’ll ever hear--

There’s a blast, loud as anything. It rings in Tom’s ears, recalling falling shells and wounded comrades, and an anguished shriek. The pain in Tom’s arm lets up. He wraps his fingers around his knife and plunges it into the dead one’s skull. He yanks it out, and thrusts it in deep, one last time, for good measure, pursing his lips as a sour stream of pus and blood pour from its wounds, cascading cool and already congealing onto Tom’s face and shirt. 

Quickly, he pushes it off of him, rolling onto his stomach to dry heave. Sco’s hovering over the wounded stranger, one leg planted on either side of his torso. The man is howling in pain, clutching at his gut, where he’s bleeding profusely. Sco sneers, eyes blank and shining like broken glass as he watches the scout try, fruitlessly, to writhe away. He drops down to his knees, sitting on the stranger’s chest, pinning him in place, mirroring what the scout had tried to do to Tom moments ago. The shotgun hangs diagonal across Sco’s back as he reaches down and wrenches the scout's fingers apart, prying his knife from his hand. The blade glints in the sunlight, long and wicked and dangerous, and Tom hears a horrified gasp from the man beneath his lover as he raises it high, brings it down just between his eyes, and presses, just a bit, just a little--

The man _screams._ Sco rounds his back, hovering over the scout so Tom can’t see what he’s doing, watching the man’s legs flail and kick as he screams. The muscles in Sco’s arms and back ripple under his skin as the sound of his blade slicing into living flesh harmonizes morbidly with the gentle morning breeze moving across the lake. 

There’s another blood-curdling scream, then a nausea-inducing ripping, and tremors wrack the man’s body. Sco’s arm punches towards the sky, a flap of bloody flesh in his clutches. He’s not done though, squeezing the stranger’s torso between his knees as he flings his gruesome prize aside and brings the crimson-slick knife down with a thunk, piercing the man’s neck.

The offender’s legs shake as he lets out one final gurgling gasp, then goes limp. 

Tom’s on his feet in an instant. He runs over to where Sco sits, still astride the cooling corpse of the scout, making no moves to change his position. 

“Sco,” says Tom softly. When there’s no response, he circles around. He gasps. The scout’s face is mangled almost beyond recognition, more than half of it skinned right off, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. The knife is still plunged deep into his neck, vermilion viscera dripping from the wound and pooling below his head. He tears his eyes away to stare at his lover’s chest, flushed red with exertion and splattered in bright hot blood, rising and falling like he’s just run the length of a trench. He lifts his gaze to Sco’s face, stomach twisting as he takes in the spatter there, dripping red and viscous down the bridge of his nose, his cheeks. 

Tom reaches out a hand, settling it on Sco’s burning shoulder. That gets his attention. He turns his primal gaze on Tom, pupils dilating as he stands. Tom doesn’t back away as Sco grabs him by the shoulders, studying his face for a long moment before demanding gruffly, “Are you alright? Are you bitten?”

“What? N-no--” sputters Tom, but Sco is already tearing his shirt off, running tremulous hands over Tom’s body, checking him.

“Did he hurt you?” Sco’s voice is deeper now, almost breaking around a lump in his throat. 

“No, god, no, Sco--”

Sco steals the next words from his throat with a kiss that scorches Tom to his very core. His toes curl as he winds his fingers in Sco’s hair, the coppery taste of a vanquished man’s blood on his tongue as Sco takes his mouth viciously. 

“Sco, shouldn’t we--”

“You are mine,” growls Sco. “You are _mine,_ Blake.”

“Yes, only yours, of course.”

“No one will ever lay their hands upon you. _Ever.”_

Tom swallows. He looks around frantically, eyes stuck on the remaining revenant, the one who’d fallen, slowly crawling its way towards them. 

“Sco--”

Sco grabs his whole jaw in one hand, and Tom’s mouth snaps shut. “Get in the house. _Now.”_

Before his brain can tell him not to, Tom obeys, stopping only to grab his knife, completely abandoning his water buckets. Just before he’s out of earshot, he hears Sco strike his blade hard into the dead one’s head, the clink of bottles being strung back around the perimeter. 

His heart is in his throat as he waits inside, unsure of what to do. He washes his hands in the kitchen sink until his skin is pink, then scrubs at his face until all the thick, dark fluid is gone. When he opens his eyes, Sco’s coming in the door, jaw set like he’s about to kill another man, face and chest still caked in drying blood. 

They stand there, staring at one another, for one charged moment. 

“Sco, I--”

The words fly from Tom’s head as Sco charges him. He looks down at him through long, pretty eyelashes as he crowds him up against the large kitchen table. “You're sure you're not hurt?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Sco--”

Sco’s upper lip curls as he makes quick work of Tom’s trousers, yanking them down around his ankles. He spins him around and bends him over the table. Tom braces himself on his hands, arms shaking as he submits himself to Sco entirely, overwhelmed by the urgent press of his hands against his skin, like he doesn’t believe that no injury had befallen him in the scuffle. 

“Sco,” he tries softly, just once more.

Sco yanks his head back by the hair until his lips are against Tom’s ear. “You are mine,” he snarls. He kicks Tom’s legs as far apart as they’ll go in the constraints of his trousers. “You are mine, darling, and I’ll fucking die before I let anyone take you from me.”

Tom lets out a moan. Coherence and reason abandon him as ravenous teeth find his neck, leaving tacky trails of a stranger’s blood in their wake. There’s the sound of a tin opening, and Tom can’t seem to keep any air in his lungs, gasping uncontrollably at the feeling of one hand tugging his hair, while the other...

“God, fuck!” Tom’s hands scrabble at the table as two of Sco’s long, slick fingers breach him without warning, at the same time.

“Shh, you can take it,” growls Sco in his ear, hand tightening in his hair as the fingers inside him continue their slow, inexorable press. “You can take what I give you, can’t you, darling?”

“Y-yes,’” gasps Tom, fingernails digging into wood, trying to breathe as Sco’s fingers push deeper, deeper. He pulls them out only to thrust them back in, pausing to rub his insides at _that spot,_ the one that makes his eyes cross, the one Sco can always find. “Yes, yes, Sco, yes--”

“I’m going to take you now,” he murmurs against Tom’s ear. He sticks his tongue out to lick at the shell of that same ear before he bites down, hard, sending frissons of arousal through Tom. 

“P-please, oh, yes, please.” Tom’s shocked at the sound of his own voice, broken and whiny, but he doesn’t have time to think much about it before he’s being shoved down onto the table, one cheek pressed against dusty wood, anchored in place by the huge hand splaying across his face. His hips are yanked back, back forced into an arch, and there’s the lewd sound of Sco spitting before hot fluid hits the crack of his arse, dripping down between his cheeks. He groans, blushing furiously, then the head of Sco’s slick prick is teasing against his soft, wet, opening, and the breath is knocked from his lungs as he pushes in with one brutal, long stroke. 

“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck,” he whimpers, face squeezed between the counter and Sco’s unyielding palm, his fingers grasping at something, anything. Sco slides all the way out of him, only to plunge back in, one hand gripping his hip tight enough to bruise, in and out, each thrust simultaneously sending white heat shooting up Tom’s spine & punching a gasp from his lungs.

“God, look at you, so good for me,” murmurs Sco. The oppressive hand releases Tom’s face from its grasp, and Tom’s breath hitches as Sco drapes his body over his, pressing his sticky chest to Tom’s back.

“You’re mine, you’re all mine,” he whispers in Tom’s ear, palms gliding over Tom’s arms to rest on top of his hands. Tom bites his lip as Sco thrusts deep, and stays there, swiveling his hips in little circles, just enough to grind against that sweet spot, over and over, until Tom’s legs are shaking and he’s crying out in a voice he doesn’t recognize. 

“Fuck,” gasps Tom as desire coils deep in his belly, licking up his spine like wildfire as Sco keeps stroking him where he wants it the most. “Fuck, fuck.”

“My cock feels good inside you, doesn’t it, my darling,” he coos, interlacing their fingers, mouthing at his ear, inhaling his hair deeply. “I’m the only one who can touch you like this, I'm the only one who can touch you, ever. Tell me. _Tell me.”_

Tom’s barely got the wherewithal to comply, but somehow he manages to babble, “God, yes, only you, Sco, only ever you. _Ah, fuck,_ I love your cock, I fucking _love_ it when you fuck me, so big, so deep, fuck, Sco, gonna come, you’re gonna make me come--”

Sco _growls_ against his ear, squeezing Tom’s fingers like he means to break them, and increases the speed of his hips, the depth of his thrusts, and Tom’s so close, almost there, just a little more--

He pulls out far too abruptly, and yanks Tom to standing. Stunned, Tom allows himself to be manhandled out of his trousers. Sco whirls him around and picks him up like he weighs nothing, slamming his arse on the table before shoving him onto his back and pushing his thighs wide. 

“Want to see your face when I make you come,” he says gruffly, hitching one of Tom’s legs over his shoulder and wrapping the other around his waist. His eyes light up, incendiary. “Want you to see mine.”

Tom’s already looking. Fear and arousal prickle up his spine at the sight of his lover, flushed and covered in sweat and blood, eyes wild, blood-stained hands possessive as he drives his length forcefully back into his body. His back bows off the table, saliva collecting in his mouth as he grabs at Sco’s arms, digging fingernails into hard muscled flesh as he’s taken mercilessly, as he is _owned._

Sco bares his teeth as he yanks Tom’s body back onto his cock, adjusting his hips so he’s back at that delicious angle that has Tom seeing stars. In a few short, savage thrusts, Tom’s teetering at the edge again, hips aching, prick drooling onto his belly, heart pounding, then Sco’s massive hands are closing around his wrists, pressing them down above his head. Tom lets out a moan that could register as either distress or pleasure as he hurtles ever closer, closer, oh fuck, he's going to come untouched, then Sco leans down and says,

“I love you to death, my beautiful darling, God, how I love you to death.”

Tom _breaks,_ shattering into a million pieces, body convulsing as he screams out Sco’s given name, _Will, Will, Will,_ thighs tightening around his torso as he releases copiously between their stomachs, mind going utterly, blissfully blank as he dissolves into shuddering ecstasy. 

Sco’s swearing through gritted teeth as he fucks him through it, eyes burning into Tom’s as he keeps thrusting, and tears threaten to slide down Tom’s face as it becomes so much, almost too much, but then his back is stiffening, arching, rounding, like some sinewy ethereal beast, and a guttural cry tears itself from his throat as he spills deep in Tom’s body. 

After a long moment, Sco releases Tom’s wrists to capture his mouth in a deep, exhausted kiss. “I love you to death,” he says again, kissing Tom’s forehead and his cheeks. “I love you to death.”

“And I love you,” gasps Tom, hooking his ankles around Sco's back, not quite ready for the inevitable emptiness that is to come. “To death.”

“Fuck,” he murmurs, looking at the reddish-pink, come and blood stickiness on Tom’s trembling belly and chest. He rubs his hand through it. “I bloodied you up. I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No. Well, you might have done, but only a little. And in case it was unclear, I liked it, very much. God, Sco, seeing you like that, so possessive...” Tom shivers, lets out a sigh. “I’ve never seen you like that, it was...it was, truly, something.”

 _“Fuck.”_ Sco hangs his head, trailing apologetic kisses across Tom’s collarbone. “I’m sorry, darling, truly, I am. I don't know what came over me. I saw you out there, I saw you in trouble...I knew you could hold your own, I knew you could, but I just...I couldn’t watch it, I couldn’t take it, I blacked out. I had to protect you.”

“Don’t apologize. I certainly needed the help,” admits Tom, soothing a thumb across his face. “I’m so glad you came when you did. Otherwise, I might have been done for.”

“I would never let that happen.” Sco’s eyes are hardening again, and Tom pulls his face down for a kiss with a hushed _I know, I know._

Later, as they wait for the bath water to finish heating, Tom takes account of the shabby little living room, a pang of longing striking his heart. “Suppose there’ll be more scouts, hmm?”

“Most likely.” 

Tom lets out a sigh, deep and heavy. “Suppose we’ll have to move on from this place. Shame.” 

“Or,” says Sco, sliding his hands into thick oven mitts, “we could stay.”

Tom’s eyebrow shoots up. “But...somewhere, somewhere out there, there are others who know we’re here. They’ll come for us.”

Sco’s brow furrows as he reaches into the hearth and grabs the pot, dumping the now hot water into the copper tub. He sets the pot down with a groan, discarding the mitts before sliding into the water. Tom looks at him. Should he repeat what he’d said?

“If they come for us, they’ll meet the same fate as that poor bastard earlier today.” Sco beckons him in with one long finger and a dark look in his eye. Tom settles into the warm water, against the corded muscles of his lover’s chest, sighing gratefully. 

After a few moments, Tom leans back and looks up at Sco. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“Yes, I do. This place is ours now. Yours and mine. If anyone thinks they can come take what we’ve built from us....” Sco pecks him on the lips and shrugs. “Let them fucking come, then.”

A smile spreads across Tom’s face. “Let them come.”

“Exactly,” says Sco through a grin. As their mouths open for a kiss that soon turns hungry, Tom allows himself to be overwhelmed by everything he feels for this man, this wild, brutal, man, the man who’d been at his side through everything, from the war to the outbreak and now, here, holding him in his arms in this little paradise they’ve carved for themselves in the deepest pit of hell. His protector, his brother in arms. His partner in war and peace, in joy and sorrow, in life and death. 

_Let them come._

**Author's Note:**

> there you have it, lads, the zombie apocalypse au that literally no one asked for! i have a ton of ideas for this universe (plus an absolutely bangin playlist), and i am definitely considering making this into a small series once i'm finished posting “shortest distance,” my blakefield longfic (which is literally nothing like this, but you should also check out!).
> 
> if you enjoyed this horrorporn, please leave a comment for your poor wayfaring smut peddler and sustain my soul. 
> 
> happy quarantine, stay safe out there folks.


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